


Drifting

by InvincibleRodent



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drabble, F/M, Gen, Internal Monologue, Introspection, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 09:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6560626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvincibleRodent/pseuds/InvincibleRodent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stream of consciousness-style drabble about some thoughts and feelings of one Jane R. Shepard. <br/>Set sometime during the events of ME2 in theory, reflecting upon the beginning of the game, but the relationship with Garrus is already more or less established.</p>
<p>Written with custom Shepard in mind, but not very different from the default. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drifting

Drifting. From system to system, cluster to cluster, mission to mission. From ship to ship and friends to friends.

Temporary. Impermanent.

And so far, Jane had been content with impermanence.

She had always been a drifter, a permanent self in constant transience- Born and died in the vacuum, she had never called a ship home before the Normandy, and every friend she had, every person she called hers slowly but surely phased out of her life. Some sooner, and some later; some by her own fault, some by that of circumstance.

A dull speck of stardust, one of a cluster, one of many, gazing up at lights like a jar of marbles scattered on the jet black sky from a galactic fishtank- ever light a star, a planet, a colony she had yet to see, she might never see.

And she was content with that.

Drifting- rocks and dust and debris, and the lights of distant galaxies paint an inverse map of the freckles dotting a beloved’s sun-kissed face.

The observation deck had always been a quiet, lonely place; one from whence she could watch the world drift around her, soundless and unnoticed, like a cloud of perfume following the steps of a pretty woman- one beautiful and dangerous as the cosmos itself.

Jane rested her forehead on the cool glass, her fingers splayed wide on the armored surface, as if that somehow got her closer, got her out of this damned tin can of a ship to float, walk aimlessly… to escape this mangled, garbage body of hers. This body, on which each mark, each scar, felt like a stitch on a rag doll; another piece of chopped up newspaper on a paper-maché volcano.

Cerberus’ little pet project, the potato clock into which they jabbed needles and wires, tossed into the world, and expected to perform- somewhere on Earth, her medical record spills into the second filing cabinet.

She stares herself in the eye.

Her hair had always been quick to grow- Only months after having been shorn to allow access to her fractured skull, it was down to her eyes again, and soon, to her shoulders, as if nothing had happened. The bionic eyes were the same, nondescript shade of green as her own. The synthetic patches of skin bled seamlessly into her own, even sprouting wispy, golden hairs, her scars had faded into a web of white lines cris-crossing her torso, and she bled like anyone else- she was back to normal, for all intents and purposes. Normal, plain old Shepard.

Plain Jane. With her coarse, colorless, red-blonde hair, her ruddy skin and sparse eyebrows… Her mother’s flat Cupid’s bow, her father’s wide-set jaw, her grandfather’s hooked nose.

The same old Plain Jane Shepard, staring at her through a stranger’s eyes.  
Her breath drew opaque clouds on the window, clouds that remained for only a few seconds before dissipating into the pressurized and artificially oxygenated air, and they melded smoothly with the smell that sunk into her clothes, her skin, her hair, adding a metallic twang to every inhale.

Drifting. It would be so easy to just… never return, the next time they dock.

She wondered if Garrus would come with. He always had, no matter what she asked of him… into the heart of the storm, the gaping maw of a Reaper, certain death… he had always come with, hadn’t he. Always a gun at her six, a gaze over her head, a warm presence by her side.

Well. As warm as a turian gets, she thought, and she smirked to herself.

Thoughts of him often did that.

One, one, two, one, two, one, the pattern of their fingers as they thread together atop her sheets. One, one, two, one, two, one. She counts them, measures them, marvels at the way his three long fingers wrap around her hand- both riddled with calluses, ridges, and his filed down talons scrape at the ashen skin all the way at her wrist…

Somehow everything they say feels big. And meaningful, and deep, and natural. So they say nothing.

One, one, two, one, two, one.

Patterns. Patterns repeat, patterns are comfortable, predictable strings of events, like beads on a necklace- one, one, two, one, two, one, and colors alternate. Pink and blue and pink again, and three fingers around her five, one, one, two, one, two, one as her thumb traces the letters of his name on his palm in her squiggly human script.

They’re drifting.

Temporary. Impermanent.

With a last, deep huff of air and a last, longing look towards the direction she presumed Earth might be, she pushed herself away from the window, and with the back of her hand, she smeared the oily patch her forehead left on the glass.

She had always been a drifter. And she was content with that.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [a tumblr](http://www.weresquirrel.tumblr.com) , in case anyone is interested! :) Prompts and feedback are always welcome!
> 
> [This is my Shepard's face](http://weresquirrel.tumblr.com/post/142020521156/is-this-self-indulgent-yes-am-i-going-to-continue) , in case anyone would like to compare with the description. :)


End file.
